The Cowboy's Craving (Book 4, the Mackenzies—Morgan) Read online

  She glanced back to his eyes. “I know.”

  “You didn’t come to see Gemma?”

  She shook her head. She’d never been unable to say anything but the truth, whatever the consequences.

  He frowned. “So…” He raised his hand and brought it up to hers. As his fingers wrapped around hers she tensed momentarily and then relaxed as his hand took control and raised hers, still holding the basket. “So…” he repeated, lifting the basket into the air. “These,” he narrowed his eyes as he glanced at its contents, “baby clothes are for me?”

  She nodded before she realized what he’d said. Then she looked at what their joined hands were holding. “No!” She blushed and looked up at him startled. For someone who never blushed—not for anything, or anybody, anywhere—she seemed to be doing it a lot recently.

  Heat flared in her cheeks, bringing forth a bloom of sweat that had nothing to do with the heat in the room, and everything to do with the semi-naked man in front of her. She stepped back as if he were scorching her. And then turned on her heels and walked over to the art table and put down the basket. “The clothes are for Gemma’s baby.” She unbuttoned her coat, needing to cool down and regain control before she turned to him.

  “She’s in Lake Tekapo today. You could have saved yourself a journey.”

  She took a deep breath and turned around. “I wanted to come to Glencoe.”

  His face creased once more into a frown, an expression which she realized was never far away. The muscles in his face pushed against the scored line between his brows, as if falling into a place with which they were very familiar. “Really?” He glanced at the painting. “Then perhaps you’ve come to see your portrait?”

  “No, I didn’t know Gemma was painting one of me.” She almost winced, realizing she’d just given away a perfectly good reason for being here. She walked up to it, inspecting it. It was a big painting. It wasn’t finished yet. The background had been sketched in. The lower half unfinished. But the top half—with Rebecca’s dark hair framing a pale face with eyes that looked at the viewer with an uncanny intensity—surprised her. “I look pretty scary.”

  Her concentration on the painting faltered as she heard his booted footsteps approach, echoing on the wooden floor. He stood just behind her, looking at the painting over her head. “Scary? That’s not how I’d have described it.”

  “And how would you describe how I look?”

  She caught her breath, suddenly realizing just what she’d asked him. She remained resolutely still, unable to turn, too aware of him looming so large and powerful behind her.

  “You look… unaware.”

  She swung around, curiosity getting the better of her, as usual.

  “What do you mean, ‘unaware’? That’s an odd way to describe me.”

  His eyes slid from the painting to her. “Odd maybe, but that’s as I see it.” He pointed at the painting. “You’re looking like you do when you look at anything or anyone. You’re trying to figure out what makes them tick and yet you’re kind of…” He trailed off.

  “Unaware?” she helped out.

  “Um,” he agreed with a grunt.

  “I still don’t understand what you mean.”

  He took a few steps back. “Ignore me. I didn’t mean anything by it. I don’t know, it’s just…”

  She turned to face him again. “Just what? Tell me. I’d love to know.”

  He sighed. “It’s just… there’s nothing between you and the world. No pretense.”

  “Pretense. No, I guess not. Why bother pretending?”

  “Most people do. To protect themselves mainly, I guess.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She suddenly felt uncomfortable at how deep their conversation had plunged, just within a few sentences. She smiled uncertainly. “Perhaps I should pretend. I might look a little less scary.”

  He shook his head, his expression serious. “No. Don’t do that. There’s nothing in that look which can confuse a man. It doesn’t hide anything.”

  “But I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “No, you’re kind of innocent.”

  She felt her eyes widen with surprise. “Innocent? I’m twenty-five, I’m hardly innocent.”

  His frown twitched deeper. “I don’t mean that kind of innocence.”

  “Then what?”

  He shrugged and stepped away. “I don’t know. I’m no good with words. All I know is that you’re the opposite of scary.”

  “Well… in that case, perhaps you’d offer me a drink?”

  He looked surprised. “Sure. There’s some coffee, or some kind of tea which I think Gemma keeps out here.” He rummaged around looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Here.” He held up a box and read the label. “Raspberry leaf?”

  She laughed. “No thanks. I think that’s to help pregnant women with their contractions.”

  He dropped the box in embarrassment.

  “A coffee will be just fine, thanks.”

  It was Rebecca’s turn to be puzzled as, instead of turning on the state-of-the-art coffee machine which Gemma had installed on her work bench, Morgan opened a half-empty jar of instant coffee and chipped away at the hardened grains with a damp spoon.

  She turned away to hide her smile. If he thought she was entirely without guile, what about him? She watched as he spooned in the coffee into a chipped cup for him and one of Gemma’s fine bone china cups for her. Why didn’t he use one of Gemma’s as well?

  She walked around the studio, looking at the paintings before coming to a stop before the large sliding windows that looked out over the lake, to the valley and to the snow-capped mountains beyond.

  He handed her a cup of unappealing looking coffee.

  “Thank you. It’s a fantastic spot Gemma has here. She’s very lucky.”

  He looked out at the view. “Yeah, it’s a good estate. One of the best.”

  “You’re not from round here though, are you?”

  “No.”

  Rebecca was beginning to realize that making conversation wasn’t going to be easy with Morgan. She mentally adjusted point 8 on her wish list. Conversation was so over-rated.

  “Where are you from?”

  “I grew up on the West Coast.”

  “Greymouth? Hokitika?” she ventured.

  He shook his head. “You won’t have heard of it. A small settlement up in the bush.” He paused and she didn’t fill the silence. “My stepfather was a hunter. There was just my mother and me. So…”

  “So?”

  He shrugged. “So… it was a quiet life.”

  “Where did you go to school?”

  “I didn’t. There was correspondence school but no one bothered me with it. I used to go bush most days. Trapping things, making things. Helped my mother out. Life was pretty basic out there.”

  “I can’t imagine it.”

  “Best not to. It was a tough life. Not a good one. You’re from England?”

  She nodded. “Manchester. Then university at Oxford and then here, to New Zealand, on a post-doc. St John’s Observatory is the best place in the world to study galaxy formation and evolution. That’s my area of research.”

  He nodded, but he had the glazed look that most people had when she talked of her research.

  “How long are you here for?” he asked.

  “I’ve decided to stay.” She glanced at her full cup, decided there was no way she was going to drink it and placed it on the bookcase by the window. He’d probably never notice. “I love it here. I bought my house last year. I’ll travel between here and Christchurch for meetings and such. Otherwise… I’m here to stay.”

  He didn’t say anything for a few moments, just drank some of the disgusting lukewarm instant drink that was only distantly related to coffee. He replaced his empty cup and turned to her.

  “Why are you here, Rebecca?”

  “You said you’d come by to see me. You didn’t.”

  “Didn’t reckon you meant it.”

  “I di
d! I don’t say things I don’t mean. I thought you’d realize that after what you’ve just said.”

  “Yeah, I should have done. But… well…”

  “You doubted yourself.”

  He nodded.

  “You shouldn’t. Doubt yourself I mean. I really wanted to see you again. I don’t know, last time I saw you”—she frowned as she tried to explain what she’d felt—“I just knew I needed to see you again. And then when I didn’t, I kept thinking about you. Wondering what you were doing.”

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Doing? Working. That’s all, just working.”

  She glanced at his muscles. “That’s what I thought. That’s what I imagined.”

  “You imagined me working? What, like this? Without a shirt?”

  She bit her lip and then nodded.

  “Um…” He stepped toward her. “Turns out you were right. And turns out I was wrong because I didn’t imagine you like this.” He reached out and lightly touched her arm, covered with a thick jumper, beneath which she wore a t-shirt. His finger curled around one of the chunky swirls of the Aran sweater and sunk it inside the center of the swirl. The feel of his finger against her bare arm sent crazy signals to all parts of her body, cutting off any thought.

  With the lightest of touches, he curled his finger around the knot of wool and pulled her to him. And she came. She was at eye level with his bare chest and stayed there, transfixed by the springy hairs, by the sawdust which dappled his shoulders and by the smell of him. God, all she wanted to do was to lick his nipple, so tight and brown.

  “Rebecca?” His voice rumbled in his body and she felt it in her gut.

  “Um?” She didn’t raise her face to his, only her palm and placed it against his chest. Lightly at first, feeling the springy hairs tickling against the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist. She sucked in a lungful of air as she pushed her hand firmly against his chest. She felt a corresponding sharp intake of breath with him.

  “Rebecca! What are you doing?”

  She raised her eyes to his which looked down at her, dark and dangerous. “Touching you. Like I’ve wanted to do from the minute I got here.”

  He pressed his hand briefly against hers before dragging it away. “You don’t know what you’re playing with.”

  “I think I do.” She might be innocent about most things but she knew instinctively what she wanted and what he could give her at this moment. She looked back at his chest and pressed her lips against his skin, kissing him, breathing him in.

  He pushed his fingers through hers and gripped them, trying to pull her away. But she wasn’t having it. She pressed her forehead against his chest and looked down at the hardening bulge in his jeans. She brushed her cheek against his chest and with her other hand smoothed her fingers over his stomach, following the rippling of his muscles into the tightness of his belt. Her thumb swept over his erection and he jerked into action. He lifted her up in one swift movement and found her mouth with his.

  Hot and hungry, his mouth was on hers, his tongue finding hers in a frenzied kiss. She gripped his head with her hands so he couldn’t move away. With her legs wrapped around his hips, she gasped as his erection bumped and ground between her legs, the pressure building inside her, as their tongues slid and their mouths gasped against each other’s.

  She didn’t know how long they stood, his hands under her butt, their mouths locked and her hips, shifting, rubbing her sex against his. Suddenly the sound of an insistent ringing filtered into her brain, closely followed by the sound of banging car doors.

  He pulled away first, gave her butt another squeeze and then lowered her reluctantly to the floor. “I’m sorry, Rebecca, I didn’t mean—” He broke off and picked up the phone.

  Shakily she pushed her fingers through her hair and walked away, only half-listening to his side of the conversation which ended abruptly. She heard the sound of Gemma and Callum laughing outside and knew Gemma would be inside soon, looking for her.

  She turned to Morgan who’d clicked off the phone.

  “Who was it? Anyone important?”

  “No. No one important.” She was surprised at the bitter tone of his voice.

  “Good.” They both glanced toward the sound of approaching footsteps, then looked back at each other. “Do you eat?”

  “Of course I eat.”

  “Good. Because I cook. Well. I cook well. I follow the recipe of course otherwise…” Her mind forgot where it was going as he tugged a shirt on over his muscled and tanned body, hiding the erection which was still straining at his zipper.

  “Because you like to follow the rules.”

  She nodded. “Usually. Except not now. Dinner? Tonight? My place?”

  “Sure.”

  She backed away, half angry with herself for giving into this unruly need and half satisfied, knowing she had no choice. “Good.” She turned to leave.

  “Rebecca, I think you’ve forgotten something.”

  She smiled and turned, walked up to him and kissed him lightly on the lips. “This?”

  He kissed her and it wasn’t lightly, before pulling away and bringing the basket into her hands. “No, this.”

  She backed away, embarrassed. “Thank you.” She turned just as Gemma entered the studio.

  “Becks! I didn’t expect to see you here! Didn’t you get my text?”

  “No. Well, maybe. I was just about here by that time so I thought I’d drop these off.”

  Gemma glanced at Morgan who was still buttoning up his shirt. She raised her eyebrows. “And see Morgan?”

  “Yes, well. Morgan was here. So it would have been rude not to.”

  “Absolutely. Fancy a coffee?”

  “No, I have to get back. Sorry, I can’t stay. I have to be at the Information Office. Have some people to show around the Observatory in an hour.”

  “Sure. Fancy dinner tonight?”

  Rebecca glanced at Morgan but he was picking up his hammer. “Not tonight.”

  “Then how about Friday?”

  “Sounds great.”

  Gemma gave Rebecca a hug and Rebecca walked outside into the bright sunshine with her. “That is, unless you’re having your baby by then.”

  “God, I hope so. This must be the longest pregnancy known to woman.”

  “I doubt it. I think you’ll find it’s pretty much exactly the same.”

  Gemma laughed. “Trust you to put things into perspective.” Rebecca got into the car and Gemma pushed the door closed behind her. “Safe drive home,” she called through the open window.

  But it wasn’t Gemma who Rebecca was thinking of as she drove off back to Glencoe across the plains that still held a sheen of frost on them in places. It was her reaction to Morgan. She didn’t do things like that. She didn’t react like that, never had and had promised herself that she never would. That primitive lust was a new feeling for her. Damn. She was angry with her body for responding but she was more angry about the fact that she couldn’t stop herself. She needed to see Morgan as soon as possible. Did that mean she was like her birth father after all?

  Morgan went back to work with a hard erection and a heavy heart.

  It was the heavy heart that troubled him the most. That damned text. Why did she keep contacting him, refusing to tell him what he needed to know, only demanding things he couldn’t give? Damn the woman. But his anger for the woman who’d betrayed him couldn’t wipe out the lust that filled his body.

  He could still smell Rebecca’s fragrance, could still taste her on his lips. And he knew he’d get no rest until he filled her with himself. She’d made it clear she wanted him. And he wasn’t going to disappoint.

  CHAPTER THREE

  As Rebecca scanned her bedroom for the nth time, she wondered why on earth she’d invited Morgan to dinner. She hadn’t planned it, just as she hadn’t planned the kiss. She hadn’t really planned—well maybe just a little—to see Morgan in the first place. She’d gone to Glencoe under the pretense that she was going to visit
Gemma. Well, that pretense had been shot sky high when she hadn’t answered Gemma’s text.

  Up until now Rebecca hadn’t actually realized that she could fool herself quite so successfully. But there it was. The truth for all—well, her and Morgan anyway—to see.

  She smoothed the king-size white feather duvet which lay like a cloud on top of the bed. Why the hell was she even doing that? There was no way he was coming in here. She didn’t sleep around. She had a list and a plan and she was determined to stick to it.

  Despite her best intentions she checked to make sure her clothes were tidily put away. No ornaments or girly things adorned her dressing table. The only things left out on her bedside table were a pile of reference books and an e-reader.

  She walked through the sunny yellow hallway, lit only by a single lamp that she’d picked up cheap in a charity shop, which stood on the kauri table she’d bought in New Zealand. She went through to the kitchen and stirred the sauce, peeked into the oven—the chicken was doing nicely—and made sure the vegetables were ready to steam. She moved the platter of antipasto slightly to one side. Then back again.

  This was ridiculous! She looked down at her dress. Why on earth was she wearing a dress? She never wore a dress. She’d change.

  She re-entered her bedroom, slipped out of her dress and walked to the wardrobe, trying to decide between her jeans and the black trousers she wore for work, when the old-fashioned door chimes rang. She grabbed her bulky dressing gown and pulled it on. She took a deep breath in a vain attempt to quiet her racing heart and went into the hall to open the door.

  Morgan stood with a bottle of wine in one hand and a bunch of flowers in the other. He looked so ill at ease that she only just restrained from laughing. Instead she smiled. “Morgan!”

  He answered her smile with one of his own which quickly disintegrated into his usual frown.

  “You are expecting me, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, of course. Come in.”

  She opened the door wider and he stepped inside, filling the small place. He was wearing her favorite worn jeans and a battered black leather jacket, undone—did this man never feel the cold?—revealing an open-necked shirt underneath. With an effort she raised her gaze from his chest, up his tanned neck and to his face. A blush bloomed out of nowhere at the sight of those blue eyes accentuated by his tan. She turned away quickly as she tried to hide her reaction.